


Love Will Tear Us Apart

by elfriniol



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst, Dubious Morality, M/M, Nostalgia, POV First Person, Unrequited Love, VKaz, bbkaz - Freeform, sort of, tpp spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfriniol/pseuds/elfriniol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can change in nine years, and something may not change at all.</p><p>(Don't read unless you have finished MGSV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Joy Division's eponymous song.
> 
> If Venom knew the truth before Kaz, what would he do? Would he tell him? Would he keep it to himself? Would he take the matters into his own hands? How would he explain his actions - to himself or anyone else?  
> This is an attempt to answer those questions.

When I reminisce about that short time we spent in the Caribbean, I can't help but feel a soothing wave of nostalgia. I guess it's a curse of mankind in general, idealizing the past. Looking back with a sad smile, thinking about the perfect life we lived, daydreaming of everything time took away and will never give back. It seems so long ago, even further than those nine years, the official count. I was someone else back then. Not innocent, oh no. Just a different person. And now, nearly a decade later, I'm not as ignorant as to claim that everything back then was without fault.

I joined of my own free will, in the spring of 1974. Even though that army of yours was just a band of rogues living in the jungle, in taking part I saw a promise of a future. Little did I know what kind of future it would be, but that's not the point. Being the drifter at that time, I deserted the militia I worked for and crossed the border to Colombia. It may seem the terms "deserted" and "worked for" are at odds, since the first implies a service for just cause cut short by one's selfishness and the other a strictly professional relationship, but I wanted to point out the nature of my departure. I deserted, because my contract hadn't expired yet, ergo I wasn't free to go; I used to work for them because I didn't share their passion - they were merely a source of income. That had no future, no meaning, but, on the other hand, no attachment and no hard feelings. It was simple.

San Hieronimo was nothing short of a hellhole, and my expectations were as low as a stab in the back. A decaying shack upon the shore with frail shelters scattered around, like sickly green mushrooms around a mossy tree stump. If I had not heard the stories I would've turned back the instant I saw it, this shanty town compared to which slums seemed like a middle-class district of any city in the capitalist West. I stepped into what was supposed to be the command center and spoke to the officer in charge, only to be told to wait for the commander to return. There's been an emergency, he said, fighting broke out among the new recruits. An ironic smile distorted my mouth - sleeping on wet mats and feeding on unsalted boiled yuca had surely nothing to do with that.

But I waited. And then you came.

I admit I didn't think very highly of you. Pretty face, stylish haircut, ridiculous scarf. And those aviators. What am I doing here, I questioned myself as you let me glimpse your seemingly funny attitude, what can I possibly gain by getting bossed around by a stupidly grinning blonde who was several years my junior. In my life - in my former life that is - I'd met countless of these wannabe commanders who rose through ranks faster than they gained experience. The inevitable evil in any military, because military is nothing else than a hierarchy pyramid where every storey is available, for a price. That was my very first impression of you.

I suppose, at that time, the only reason I stayed was him. Big Boss. Unlike you, he earned my respect from the very beginning. A true leader, or, as the locals would call him, a comandante. Soldiers are bound to him, not to the institution. It is a high level of mutual trust, something governmental armies so often lack. He walked among us, talked to us, listened to us. As months passed, I found myself loyal to him and his purpose, not thinking of departure anymore. And he trusted me in return, giving me special tasks, even turning to me for advice.

With time, I started to see some of your finer qualities too. You can run business. You got a knack for organizing things. You're a formidable fighter. You're the glue that holds the legend and the ordinary together. Even though your sense of humour is off and your friendliness sometimes borders on promiscuity, I got to give you some credit. Just had to get used to your constant stream of small talk and showing off.

Months went by. I was assigned to the medical staff - which was altogether five people - and it didn't take long before I was ordered to be in charge. My work consisted of going on missions, patching up our wounded in the field and on base, eventually giving crash courses of first aid to rookies. There wasn't many of us back then - I managed doing all that, and there wasn't exactly a high demand for our service anyway. We still more resembled a band of rogues than an army.

How did our average day look like? Well, those who weren't on assignment (the majority) woke up at 6 am, trained, had (poor) breakfast, then did some less physically tiring tasks until afternoon, when the heat was bearable again they trained some more and after whatever evening meal dropped dead in their shelters. It may sound as a rough life, but it wasn't really that bad. Except, perhaps, the tight budget on resources.

I remember your training sessions. They didn't happen regularly due to other business you had to attend to, but the more valuable the experience was. They were tough; even for myself, who was already experienced enough to give lessons to fresh recruits. It wasn't a mere workout to keep in shape, or a shooting practice, or sparring matches - it was everything combined in such pattern that both my body and brain had to stay 100% focused during the strenuous three hours. Although exhausting, I enjoyed them, and with end of every hell session I was already looking forward to the next one.

It was also then that my opinion of you started to change. Or not opinion, more like... I started to like you. Yeah. I was happy to see you. I was happy to help you. I was happy to spar with you. I was happy when you noticed me. It seems trivial, now that I look back, and I was being plain ridiculous - I followed you around like a stray dog (or, rather, like a creep). You never told me off though. Probably you were used to attention, being your easy-going, flirty self.

By the time we moved from the crappy beach shack to the offshore plant, I was in love with you.


	2. Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costa Rica 1974.

Suddenly we found ourselves with money. Dubious money, stinking money, but money nonetheless. You took it upon yourself and started to build while he was away chasing phantoms.

My memories of that time are scarce and what little is left is jumbled and skewed. With the move, I mainly associate hard work, lack of sleep and overall tiredness. And yet, some sort of happiness lurks in the recesses of my brain, connected to that period. I guess it's caused by the fact I got to deal with you every day, more often than usually; both you and the Boss started relying on me at one point, and when more duties arose, it meant more interaction. Together we organized repairs, training, everything. You were so excited, practically glowing (I suspect the strong local coffee played some part in that too). You could finally put your plans into motion and turn your dreams into reality.

Sure there were problems. The whole Peace Walker fiasco was one of them. But I don't want to think about that now. I want to think about the moments I spent with you, without anyone else interfering. Including him.

Hell, _ especially _ him.

The whole situation was, to say the least, wrecking my nerves. I admired him. I would die for him. I would do anything, he just needed to say the word - but there I was, staring and feeling like crap every time you two were in the same room and the only thing you could see was him. At such moments, I sensed anger rise within me, venomous, contagious, promptly followed by disgust, effectively choking me. My loyalty to him was unwavering, but I couldn't say the same about my composure or personal feelings. As if I wasn't old enough to know better, I became terribly jealous, and hated myself for it.

On the other hand, the remnants of those times when I could be with you and you alone, they are all the more precious. Like when we were setting up the sick bay. We discussed everything - expenses, personnel, construction - the whole evening, and then the hours stretched into night and before we knew it we were talking not about business at all, but our lives, our vision, our hopes. That's when I was finally getting to really know you, not the cocky commander or the apt businessman. That’s when I first heard how rough your life had been, and I couldn’t believe it at first - all I’d known up to that point was your smile. How did you manage to keep it? Or was your misfortune the reason and the smile your coping mechanism? Come to think of it, I could ask you, with how the things are at the moment.

Or maybe rather not. No reason to twist that knife even deeper. Whatever the truth, it’s gone now.

There was a time, that decade ago, when I had thought I had managed to stop my thoughts of you from becoming self-destructive. I focused on my work. I felt happy when I caught a glimpse of you, but I held onto the nice feeling of the encounter instead of constructing a maze of what I wanted and couldn’t have. It was good for me, and it seemed to be enough.

Until the whole base was abuzz with rumours of you and him. Until you emerged from the showers covered in cuts and bruises (deserved, true, but who likes to see someone they hold dear beaten?). Until you reeked with the unmistakable stench of cigars.

Until I saw him hug you.

Until I saw you kiss him.

The mad architect in me awoke and started work on his masterpiece. Foundation of anger. Mortar was jealousy. Bricks molded of the finest despair. A labyrinth called unattainable dream.

Of all the things he’s done to me, this was the hardest blow.

After that, it was hard to find some distraction. Don't know whose idea were those monthly birthday parties, but they got their job done. Spirits rose, old wounds were cleaned with gallons of alcohol, hardships partially forgotten. I found myself looking forward to them. There was this one time you drank way over your limit and we had to drag you to your room. What an ordeal. Looking back, I have no idea how we made it down or up those slippery metal stairs without taking the short way down. You were singing some japanese tune (our liquor-numbed ears put up with it fine), he was steering you so we wouldn't crash into walls every second, I supported your weight and tagged along. By the time we reached our destination someone came running in after us, that they need the Boss over there, and the next moment it was just you and me. You fell onto your bed, sat swaying on the edge, then tried to slide out of your pants. I knelt down, trying to explain to you that you need to take your shoes off first, but you didn't get it. In the end it was me undressing you and you promising me a medal for distinguished service.

I'd lie if I said that the thought of taking a bit of an advantage of your drunken state did not cross my mind. Of course I wouldn't force you, I wouldn't rape you, I'd just... take care of you. Chances were you wouldn't even remember, and the consequences? Didn't give a damn. Even if they were the Boss' wrath. I watched as you curled up on your side, clutching the blanket to your chest as if you wished for your missing lover to be there. You looked like an angel. I reached out, my hand hovering above your head, just a few inches away from touching you. It all felt like someone had cast a spell and let me glimpse another reality where it would've been me in his place – me devouring your generous mouth, me watching the sunset at your side, me sucking you off and-

The spell broke. My longing for you replaced self-contempt. Finally the sober part of my mind took control and I left you to your dreams, not even daring to give a feather-light caress.


	3. Imago

"Boss?"

I turn my head to the balcony door where you are tentatively leaning on your crutch, contemplating whether to join me or leave me to my thoughts. I make the decision for you and kiss you. You hesitate, say that we'll be seen, and I patiently remind you we're standing in a blind spot. I feel your tension dissipate somewhat.

Most of the times now you call me 'Boss'. Or 'Snake'. Those names roll off your tongue with a peculiar endearment and I can't imagine being called anything else anymore. It took a trip to hell and nine long years of void for you to call me that, but I don't mind. It grants me the privilege to call you by your given name. In my mind, it is not so long ago that you were my boss and I your subordinate, and sometimes I find our current relationship awkward since I am supposed to give you orders. If you had only known.

We go inside and the next moment I have you leaning against the desk. The crutch falls out of your hand. I hug you, caress you, my mouth never leaves yours. You hold onto me for support you deny you so desperately need, open to me in the most intimate way and let me see the cracks in your soul. From us, you lost the most; a dream, a home, him. You're not aware of the last loss, and I am too much of a coward to tell you. If I told you, would you hate me? Or would you despise me? Either way it would be the end, and that is something I would not be able to bear. I care too much about you. I want to stay by your side and protect you. An uncomfortable thought worms its way into my brain, that maybe the thing I should protect you from is myself, but I squish it as an insect and drown its dying laughter in your sighs.

"Snake..."

You make it sound like a loving nickname, like a prayer, like soft petals carried by the wind. You look at me, or the things you want to see. You stare beyond my eye and see someone else there, an uninvited stranger, an unknown guest. However you are not to blame. You see what you are meant to see. It is only right. My thoughts - they don't matter. As long as need be I will be the legend. For the world.

For you.

Am I abusing my position? Am I exploiting you? Manipulating? Or am I merely granted the chance to act on my feelings which I harbored longer than I care to count?

I take off your clothes, layer by layer. Beret and coat go first. I unbutton the uniform, only to stop at the handgun holster with its confining leather strap. Forgot about that one. Then the tie, that angry red band around your pale neck. Shirt torn apart, goosebumps underneath. Belt buckle gives way, so do your pants; I peel them off your thighs, roll them over your knees, then continue down to reveal the abrupt end of flesh and rough beginning of cold metal. Carefully, as if not to startle you, I unfasten the mechanism holding the prosthetic in place and reveal the scars. You do not protest. I finish the procedure with taking your shoe off, discarding it all in a heap on the floor.

Of course your glasses come off last. I have to do it slow so you won't bat my hands away, hide the intent behind a soft kiss or a gentle touch. Over the weeks you're letting me closer and closer and I want to build on that trust you're showing me. The moment they come off you squeeze your eyes shut, but as you get used to light they flutter open, even if for the tiniest bit. I love it when you look at me directly, no glass in between. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and in your case it's doubly true. You've been through too much and it shows. You're standing strong even in your suffering. When you look at me like that, that misty stare full of emotions, I can't help but feel respect and admiration. In this, you're much stronger than me. I hide behind this mask while you've accepted yourself for what you've become and face the world in your own way. I, on the other hand, am a mere imitation. I repeat a pattern. My actions are a script.

Your remaining arm wraps around my shoulders, pulls me nearer, and I act on instinct. Gather you in my arms. You're lighter than you used to be, your muscles not so taut anymore, and a thin layer of fat coats your abdomen, but to me you are beautiful. I move you to bed and cover you with my own body. Kiss you. Touch you. You sigh in delight. I press my lips to your mutilated right shoulder, caress the healed wound. It doesn't matter how many times I do it - you always flinch, but never order me to stop. I just want you to know how much I _ care _ .

Scent of your skin intoxicates me and my hands are pulling your legs apart before I can stop myself. Seeing you like this, exposed, flushed, aroused, is enough to make me lightheaded. I want to say something but fail to find the words. You give me an inviting stare and all I can do is plunge into you. Does it hurt? I try to be more careful. Now, relax - good. Setting a rhythm. Pressure on my hips, strong thighs pulling me forward. Fingers digging into the back of my neck, trailing down, leaving five burning trails over my back. The way you moan every time my stomach brushes your cock. By the end I'm pounding you into the mattress with abandon because it is the only way I know how to express my affection for you. Sad, isn't it? I hear myself calling your name from a distance, once, twice, and with that you tip over the edge. And I fall with you.

Breathe out. Faint whispers of confessions. Breathe in. Oblivion.

 

Later, as we lay next to each other, you ask whether I pity you. How did you get that idea? You say I treat you as something that threatens to break any second. That's bullshit. I treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Your breath ghosts over my collarbone as you speak, that I hadn't been this tender, back then, and I can't help but think _ he _ took you for granted. I tell you I've grown softer with age, which isn't entirely a lie, and you're fine with that answer, for now.

You lie here in my arms, relaxed and at peace, and an unbidden memory springs to my mind, of that distant night I had to put your drunken ass to bed. You still look like an angel, although with clipped wings. I can give you as many feather-light caresses as I want. We might be living a lie, but I assure you my love for you is truer than anything else in my both lifetimes.

Even if it tears us apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it :) thanks for reading, if you feel like chatting or would like to see more of my MGS fanworks, feel free to drop by my [tumblr](http://mini-mantis.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
